In this rapid progress; I look sidewaysand there she is;arms filled with velvet rope blueand fragments of concretespilling from her seams.

She must have been a perfectionist, that Anna,each bold letter innocent of error,conforming absolutely to the red bricksheet of paperand journey.

A-N-N-A

She writes her Bronx love story andthen whisks away,to fix her lifeand a bowl of cereal,in her messy studio apartment,above the gas station,while cars drive byand I sit in the back seatand wonder who was she?